Sixty Four
by ThymicHaze
Summary: Sixty four dashes of Junjou. Romance, heartache, passion and normalcy weaving together to illustrate a glimpse of life through 64 prompts. All pairings, all genres, Romantica heavy with Egoist and Terrorist in future.
1. 2 am

2 am

* * *

Tokyo was a city of lights. The blinking, flashing myriad of colours and logos penetrated the still sky, tinting the grey clouds with a haze of pink, blue, yellow. The sounds of the nightclubs, the bass of a bar floated up among the sleek, metal turrets, fading as they reached a sole penthouse apartment. The lights cast the expansive, open living room with rippling shadow and the only sound heard was the rhythmic ticking of the clock; gradually counting down the seconds until morning. The only sound, that is, expect two low voices, vibrating ever so softly across the night's threads, creating a distinct, intricate resonance of their own.

"Usagi"  
"Mm?"  
"What do you think about...about loving someone?"

Akihiko shifted in his bed, recalibrating long limbs so his chin came to rest on the comfortingly warm head of Takahashi Misaki. He would have looked at his face, savoured the delicious blush, the quivering lips as Misaki talked about something even brushing the boundaries of 'love'. But the gloom was oppressive, heavy curtains drawn and the alarm long pulled out of the socket. The boy turned his head and Akihiko felt the prickle of hot breath against his chest, he smiled gently at the sensation.

"What I mean to say-" Misaki mumbled into his lover's shirt. "When do you think it begins? Nii-san said there's no actual start, it just builds naturally and Todou-kun said it was when the girl gets pregnant but I think he was joking-"  
Akihiko tried to suppress a chuckle, pressing his lips into Misaki's hair, but he felt the familiar buzz and sighed frustratedly.  
"Well if you're not going to take it seriously then I'll be going to sleep, I do have school tomorrow anyway and-" He rolled over abruptly, balling the sheets under his chin, leaving Akihiko feeling suddenly and bitterly cold in his absence.  
"Misaki…" The outline of the boy's shoulders stiffened slightly, he always had a notably pleasurable reaction when the author lowered his voice but oddly didn't start at the hand gently catching his wrist, pulling him to lie face to face with Akihiko. He could just make out the low gleam of his eyes in the near-darkness, fixed on his face.  
"I didn't love you immediately, Misaki." Akihiko half-winced, a little trepidacious of the response, thankfully Misaki snorted.  
"Ha, I hated your guts."  
Akihiko smirked. "Thank you. I thought you were stubborn, strong-headed; nothing like Takahiro, I was still clinging to some hope that we could be together and you were that link."  
He felt the boy shift uncomfortably next to him, as he always did at the mention of that particular element of their shared history – Akihiko thought he'd better get to his point.  
"But-" he hastened, drawing Misaki closer to him. "That night, in the snow…when you cried for me." The pair were suddenly very still, only Akihiko's voice resonating in the space between. "I knew that was someone to whom I was totally, irrevocably linked. A boy that could feel my sadness and express it before me…" His whisper died away. The snow was still fresh on his face, the cold searing his skin. Misaki's face, distressed and concerned swam before him. He saw those huge green eyes well with tears, clinging to dark lashes for just a second before breaking free and spilling down his face. The boy sobbing quietly as he pressed his face into Akihiko's jacket; the feel of his fingers lightly stroking Akihiko's face when they kissed.  
"I knew I loved you." The memory dissolved in the present, but it wasn't Akihiko who had spoken.  
The men lay, listening just to the silence crowding the dark room. Akihiko sat up, leaning heavily on one bare arm, to see him lover's face. Misaki's eyes glinted softly, his expression indistinguishable in the gloom.

"What did you say?" Akihiko's voice was constricted, careful as though coaxing a baby bird that might fly any second. There was a momentary pause before Misaki hummed disapprovingly. "Well, if you're too tired to pay attention then maybe it's just better if we go to sleep. I may not be a famous writer but as a student of Japan I-"  
He yelped quietly, proliferations muted as a firm arm slid around his waist. The boy didn't budge but Akihiko chuckled lightly as he tensed, conditioned to brace himself for the expected, intoxicating onslaught of affection. It was with a substantial degree of surprise, therefore, that Misaki found himself being pulled close to his lover, one strong arm resting on his waist, the other over his head. Akihiko brushed Misaki's hair from his face with a tenderness that belied his frosty exterior; he brushed his lips lightly over the boy's forehead, the bridge of his nose, before moving down. He was somewhat concerned to see Misaki's eyes shut tightly, with a childlike adamance that he found irreproachably charming.

"I love you." It was half whispered, half sobbed, light enough to be carried away and swallowed by the night but heavy enough to weight a lump in Akihiko's throat and a dull ache in his chest. He tried to think of something to say, his life was fuelled by words, by lacing language into a beguiling narrative but now... he was lost. He could only suppress the grin the broke out, triumphant and glowing and hold his lover closer, pretending to ignore the muffled sniffs that self-conciously carried up to his carefully contained elation. He would spare the boy his pride; for now at least. As Misaki's breathing grew regular, his chest rising and falling delicately against the author's, Akihiko could feel his own eyes closing. The final, fleeting images before his eyes were the dancing shadows against the wall, tiny shapes darting in and out of the narrow shaft of light across the ceiling. Each unique flake a fragment of a memory and an echo of the voice that Akihiko would carry with him, warming and strengthening every aspect of a once jaded and disillusioned man.


	2. Bright

It wasn't often. The writer would even dare to suggest the bouts of darkness; the shadow that passed over his view of reality was growing increasingly rare in it's vice.

But there were those days.

The curtains were drawn tightly, heavy fabric absorbing every lick of dying September sunlight, amplifying the heat and the suffocating heat of Akihiko's room. The writer lay: half in, half out. His eyes clouded with sleep and discontent and scotch. The laptop whined in the corner to be turned off, the fan's low roar had been growing increasingly insistent over the past few days. Akihiko rolled onto his side, silently but for the tired sigh that escaped him. An overflowing bookshelf goaded him in the near darkness. Was it really worth it? All these prizes, the commendations the ass-kissing. He created a divine universe in writing, the spiraling rhetoric caught between imagination and frustrated desire. But the more he created, the more this edenic scape lapsed further and further into intangibility.

So lost was Akihiko that the tiny rustle at the door went almost unnoticed…almost. Pale blue eyes shifted downwards to watch the shadowy figure pick it's practiced way through piles of paper, model trains, priceless limited edition novels to come to somewhere near his head. Unable to strain through the darkness,

Akihiko closed his eyes, feeling the soft dip of the mattress as Misaki sat behind him. At one time he would have been shouted at, told to get out and "Deal with it! God, Usagi!" but the only new sound was a low hum, barely melodic but very real and very safe.

Akihiko listened silently to the clinking as Misaki rearranged the tiny glass bears into size order on the windowsill. It was a habit that cofounded Akihiko "What does size have to do with anything?" he'd drawled in the first year of the relationship. Misaki had snorted: "When did you ever have to worry about size!" before blushing painfully and attempting to excuse himself from the room as fast as possible. He'd failed. A smirk swelled behind Akihiko's lips at the memory, not quite making it but it was there.

As though decided, he rolled back over to face Misaki, opening his eyes only to squint suddenly. The boy had disturbed the curtain; a shaft of amber light bled through, refracting between the glass bellies of the bears and casting his lover's face in a beautific gold glow, catching in his green eyes and making them shine.

A small hand laced into his; it's heat immediately obliterating the cold, clammy grasp. Misaki rested his cheek heavily on the heel of his other hand, looking down at his lover, unperturbed by the almost childlike gaze, the advocacy and devotion that it promised. That it always promised. Misaki could have laughed, or cried, he was undecided as he lay on the bed next to Akihiko and long, lonely arms gathered him up. Holding the only thing the writer had ever really wanted. The only creation that was real.


	3. Itch

Itch

His fingers tapped out an impatient rhythm on the couch. Misaki imagined the almost inaudible patter echoed about the room, his waves of discomfort sending shivers through the apartment; stirring the empty bedroom, the desolate computer. When Akihiko wasn't there it was different, that was undeniable. Misaki didn't feel any romantic sense of loss, didn't writhe in emotional agony or pander to the man (he wasn't sure he could live with himself if he did) but everything became awkward. The meals he cooked too large and even the sofa he sat on refused to mould to his body; as if it needed only the weight of it's owner to create a comforting dip…perfect to snuggle into…

Misaki shook his head slightly, flushing at his own weakness: that was one time!

He started again as the door clicked and Akihiko himself strode in, the door closing behind him as if on it's own accord.

"You're up late." Usagi shrugged out of his dinner jacket, Misaki winced slightly as it fell in a crumpled heap, the expensive material rippling like a dark shadow from Akihiko's back, but otherwise made no sound.

Akihiko paused for a second, taking in the slight frown on his boyfriend's face, his rigid sitting posture despite the invitation of the worn couch. Keeping his eyes on the younger man, he continued: "You could have come. It might have been a little more bearable if there was one person there not trying to jump down my thro-"

He stopped suddenly however, as Misaki stood, his eyes still focusing on somewhere near Akihiko's midriff. Small hands grasped him by either bicep, pushing him forcefully into the middle of the large living space. The mildly baffled Akihiko noted at that point all the lights in the apartment were switched on.

"Misaki…are you okay?"

"…Yes" breathed the reply, Misaki's lips barely moving. "Just…just stay here, for two seconds okay?"

Akihiko opened his mouth to respond but closed it almost as quickly. Misaki's eyes were half closed, his head relaxing back, exposing his pale neck. He almost looked in prayer, breathing shallow.

Despite the distance between them, Misaki felt Usagi engulf him. His musky smell; his ego; the energy that radiated from his every pore. Slowly and surely, the apartment came back. The sharp edges of the counters softened with the curve of Usagi's hand, the bed inviting with the promise of his luxuriating smirk, the temperamental couch offering an arm around him, keeping him safe and tight by Usagi's side.

It was hard to tell how long it had been but Akihiko felt a light squeeze on his arms as Misaki cleared his throat, eyes opening. For a second they looked at each other; blue penetrating green, an intangible link, as if a focused beam of light had sprung between the two men.

Then it was gone. Misaki's arms whipped to his sides, eyes to the floor, a delicious pink hue tingeing his cheeks. "S-sorry, that was… I just…" He looked up with a pained expression to see Akihiko looking like he didn't know which way was up.

"Welcome home." And with that Misaki turned on his heel, a strange curl in the pit of his stomach as he sensed Akihiko's jaw drop behind him.


End file.
